


Technicolor Dreamcoat

by RadioCybertron



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: M/M, Mindplay, NSFW, mentions of abuse, mentions of angst, mentions of torture, various - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-31 11:06:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6467734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RadioCybertron/pseuds/RadioCybertron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A patchwork quilt of different prompts on tumblr. It's a grab bag of assorted pairings and universes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Abandon all sanity ye who enter here.

_Breakdown / Mirage / pet_  
  
“A little higher. A little higher.” Hands gliding over plating, touching and adjusting. Deft fingers separate here and there, to make sure that there’s space between collar and cabling. Only the best is to be used for situations like these. Warm wax, tropical and scenting faintly of organic bliss is rubbed into protoform and wiring.  
  
His pet had been extra good, working through the scene with such grace and finesse that he had felt his spark swell with pride. His partner had expressed an interest in the intricacies of rope-binding, and whereas organic leads would have broken.  
  
This is much better.   
  
The mech in front of him twists and arches as he binds himself further and further in the metal-mesh ribbons, arching his back and splaying one leg high over the other. Time was, a life ago- when they were nothing more than dancer and street-trash. Breakdown has not forgotten his roots. A lifetime of being a noble, compared to only a short time of being a Decepticon.  
  
Mirage had come into his hands as soft mercury to be molded, and had come out a living work of art. They come together as often as they can, separated by war and divided by ideals. They are neither traitor nor rebels, Autobots nor Decepticons here. There is only the dark and the light, Master and Pet.   
  
For a while, they can pretend.  
  
_**********************************************************************************_

_Shockwave / Devastator / possession  
_  
To say that Devastator had been furious at being called to Earth at the behest of Megatron for the sake of a mere _repair_ team had left them furious was an understatement at best, and a misconception at worst. They were _livid._ On Cybertron, they had been artists and architects of the highest degree. Their measure had only been choked by their frame, by the Functionalists that only saw a construction team.

But never their dreams. 

They had followed Megatron in hopes of building his dreams, quite literally. Instead, they were regulated to mere backdrops, characters in a play they no longer understand with parts they no longer want. 

Mayhaps that is why Shockwave’s siren call is the loudest, and why in darkest parts of Cyberton’s lonely rotation… those calls that are sent out don’t always wind up on in Megatron’s inbox. He owns the Constructions, feeding their addiction by giving them projects to perfect and buildings to maintain. He installs them in whole city blocks with a million problems, and a million more defects.  
  
Shockwave is too canny to tell all his plans at once, even to his glorious leader. He knows that the day may come when Megatron may fall, when Starscream’s reach will exceed his grasp. When that day comes, it will not be who can lead…  
  
but who can _rise up._  
  
**********************************************************************************  
  
Prowl / Grimlock / on vacation 

There’s something wrong at the ARK.  
  
Schedules are still going up on time, and patrols have their proper routes and partners. Sideswipe is still pulling pranks, and no one goes near Sunstreaker since he put Cliffjumper into the wall again. Wheeljack has since installed a skylight in it’s spot.  
  
It wasn’t load-bearing, after all.  
  
Still, there’s something wrong at the Ark.  
  
Prime hasn’t said anything, and he’s carried on like normal. The Decepticons are laying low after the last big raid on a Texas oil refinery, somewhere out past El Paso. They won’t do that again, with as much sand and grit that wound up in Starscream’s turbines after Bluestreak put him to the ground. Teletraan talks to itself, giving status updates to those who query.   
  
**Everything is fine. Nothing is wrong. Status at 100%.  
**  
There’s even a party that night, the kind that Jazz throws and Wheeljack helps. Highgrade that burns the glossa and ignites the tanks flows freely, to remind them that they’re still humming and alive. Tracks dances and Mirage preens, in the corner where he knows he can be seen. Cliffjumper snarls and Sunstreaker threatens to put another mini-bot skylight in before Bumblebee touches his arm.  
  
It’s driving Sideswipe up a wall.   
  
He leaves the party, frowning as he hurries through the corridors- past the closets he knows are going to be occupied by mechs that can’t remember where their quarters are located. Blaster was absolutely _fendered_ earlier by what Wheeljack called a Pan-Galactic Gargle Blaster and something that the red twin wants NO part of. He’d been intending to come this way anyway after an apparent mix-up that had him on a patrol route with Huffer. The first two times his code doesn’t work, and finally he resorts to using the little override device that ‘Bee had shown him.  
  
Only to come face to face with a very irate Dinobot.  
  
“What you want, Sideswipe?”  
  
He’d been fully prepared to deal with an irate Praxian, but a pissy Dinobot is a mech of another frametype. Both hands come up and he blinks owlishly before vocalizer overrides processor and he blurts out.

“The frag are you doing here?”  
  
The mechanical tyrannosaur regarded him with a look that could only be scornful as he pointed to something on a datapad that he’d been perusing.   
  
“Grimlock no genius, but can read. Can YOU?”  
  
Sideswipe wrinkled his nasal ridge as he peered down at the datapad that had nearly been flung in his face, only to stare. 

_Prowl: Status: Second-in-Command: Affiliation: Autobots_ _\- VACATION-_  
  
He stared upwards at Grimlock with confusion as he gave the datapad back. The dinobot huffed as he took it, thundering back into the office as he sat back at the desk. The chair creaked, but held his weight and he went right back to his task.  
  
“Wait, so…Prowl’s gone, and you’re filling in for him?”  
  
The red visor flashed at that, a dismissive snort fired back at him in return.  
  
“Grimlock simple, not stupid.”  
  
Thick fingers flashed across the keypad as he continued, and all the red Lamborghini could do was simply stare at him in utter and complete confusion. The world has turned on it’s head and was spinning out of control.  
  
“Right. Going back to the party now. Thanks, Grimlock. Just… can you put me with Sunny please?”  
  
“Grimlock done it already. Go away. Can see why Prowl always so huffy when he read Dinobots stories after work.”  
  
Sideswipe had never ran back to a party so fast in his life. One of those gargle-blasters was sounding pretty good about right now. He needed to drink one, it’s not like they’d believe him anyway. 


	2. Religious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Religion is a belief structure based on an idea. A structure can be built, ergo- priests are nothing more than spiritual foremen.

_Constructicons- Religious_

The scuttlebutt along the Autobot gossip-train is that the Decepticons do not have an organized state of worship. That because of their lack of a  _Prime/Priest/Figure_ they lack the essential connection that is needed to join the spark and processor of one to the connection of the all. It is said that they can no longer feel the touch of Primus and must commend what’s left of their sparks to the Chaos-Bringer. The Unmaker. The Darkness of End.

That would be nothing but _slag_. 

Also, props to Thundercracker and his collaboration with Jazz for making sure that the propaganda spreads to the appropriate venues within the Autobot hierarchy. 

After all, the best spy is the one you’re looking straight at. 

The Decepticons have taken religion and wiped away the classist veneer. Like the caste system, they have broken it down and torn away the glit and the glitter, the gold and the gild. Worship becomes compulsive, not mandatory. Megatron is the most religious of them all, though anybot would be hard-pressed to believe it. 

But, then again- they would have to understand that so many of those hard-welded scars come not from battle.

But from self-flagellation.

Forgiveness comes not within whispers and touches from a deity full of golden light and love, but from a harsh hand that forces you to admit your mistakes. A punishment is more effective than an admonishment. The Decepticons understand this, and relish the pain they are given.

That is where the Constructicons come in. 

Builders. Constructors. Repairs to the frame and spark, they are perfectionists. The Decepticons no longer need a _Prime_ to read their religious manifest destiny, or divine the purpose of their sins and admonishments. Each members of the gestalt adheres to a different tenet of the faith and each member administers pain with a different method, a different category. 

Scrapper is the master designer, a meticulous mech who plans his scenes and punishments down to the barest _screw_. He gives no quarter, expects none back, and brings the rest of the gestalt into the fold to help them scourge the sinners together. Bonecrusher punishes the strong while protecting the weaker. He is the fury of Primus, strength and steel meshing together in one perfect being. His fists are justice, his frame dealing penance one blow at a time.

Scavenger is the meek, the unsuspecting. He is the deliverer of guilt, the harbinger of punishment. Where he precedes, the others follow to bring the righteous wrath. Mixmaster and Long Haul are mysteries until themselves, their roles kept in shadows and behind tubes and liquids that are as dangerous as the silence they kep.

Hook is the keeper of the scalpel, the terror of the medical wing. Even he, however- has taken the Oath. He heals with agony, cleansing with pain. It is his wont to chase death, seek life and cherish the gifts of Primus as they are dealt.

Both good and ill.

And when Devastator comes together, they are a literal holy terror. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Bibliotecaria on tumblr.


	3. Domino Dancing 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl likes routine. Jazz likes variation- they need both to survive.

Prowl likes routine.

Jazz likes variation.

It is both tradition and rhythm, and one that the Autobots (and some of the Decepticons) know by spark. Prowl does not like things to change, and Jazz cannot live without something occasionally moving in his ever-spinning _modius operandi._ Still, like an eclipse, there is a rare instance where everything comes together for a single perfect night. 

And those are the ones worth dying for. 

The ones where the raids for energon go off just right, and Prowl actually finishes datapads. Where Jazz isn’t prepping for the next deep-ops mission into Decepticon territory. Where instead, by mutual silent agreement they take their energon and adjourn to the single large berth in their quarters.

These are they nights they do _not_ interface. Cables and cords have their uses, and he enjoys the use of his spike as much as the other the use of his valve. These are the nights they crave a different sort of intimacy, where sparks are bared and energy is traded languidly back and forth. They examine themselves from the other’s angle and find nothing wanting.

 Prowl-and-Jazz, Prowl-n-Jazz. ProwlJazz.

 A singular entity that now exists where there had been two.   
  
Hands that belong to one, to both glide over plating to hook into chinks in the armor. There is no hard and fast overload here. Nothing rushed, nothing pushed. Simply a trade of self and devotion to both each other and faction. Their yokes are willing, their leashes and chains bound by affection. They follow Optimus and the crew, not out of obligation.

But out of love.

And these are the nights that they take to remind themselves that their first love is to each other, and when the war ends.

When Primus calls them home.

It will be as they begun.

Together. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Domino Dancing prompt on Tumblr.


	4. Domino Dancing 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl is not in the best places right now, but that's all right. You make a cage of your arms, and a prison of your comfort. The containment is what he needs.

You don’t know when you started rocking back and forth. The load in your arms is heavy and bleeding, a warm slickness that feels like time and fear. There’s heat here and there, blowing against the both of you in odd blasts but not hard enough to scour your protoform. You saw what happened, you always do. The only other mech that has more spies in places than you do is Soundwave, and he’s off planet.  
  
You hum, because that stops the doorwings from twitching and his face from twisting in pain.   
  
It’s not the first time you’ve picked him back up, shaken the dust off and put him back on his pedes. It’s the first time he’s been hurt so badly by one of his own, and between the two of you it’s a weld that’s melted in place by mutual experience. You were branded a monster, and he controls one.  
  
How very alike you are, color scheme notwithstanding. His fan club will be here soon, and you tell him that in your usual joking tone. He can tell that you’re putting on a show.

 He always could.  
  
This time it’s for an audience of one, and soon an audience of six when the rest of the Constructicons arrive. You’re glad, at least between them they will have a competent medic and that’s something you are not. It means that once again, you’ll have to let him go and into someone else’s arms. They are approaching from the west, a garish band of purple, green and worried intent  
  
You continue to hum and rock.   
  
“Don’t leave,” his voice is almost nothing, as empty and desperate as his tanks.  
  
“I’m here,” you say. 

He grunts quietly at that, and you almost laugh or at least you would if you could. You’re busy at the moment, arms full of old memories and regrets and a hope that won’t quite die. You’ve been burned by this particular flame more than enough to be cautious, but like the proverbial moth here you are.  
  
“I’m here,” you repeat, and here you’ll stay. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second submission for Domino Dancing Prompt.


	5. Domino Dancing 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where are the spaces that we exist in between?

_Ain’t we done this before?_   
_Once._   
_Twice._   
_And again?_   
_Our heart springs sore._   
_But our minds scream more._   
_Once._   
_Twice._   
_And Again._

 

_\-----------------------_

 

 

He isn’t sure when the conversation completely dissolved into this screaming match. Frag him, he didn’t even know that Prowl could REACH those levels. He’d come into give his report, and leave. A thoughtless comment on the state of his desk, and the number of dents in his wall had led to this. At this point, he can’t even tell what Prowl is snarling at him anymore as it’s all gone into one big, rushing roar that buzzes past his audials like energon before a mission drop. 

He isn’t sure what makes him do it. Maybe it’s the way those doorwings tremble, or the fingers that curl on the edge of the desk- tight with tensors screeching. 

Maybe it’s the way the other’s optics are blown white with stress, like he can’t hold it all in. 

He isn’t sure what makes him do it, but he does it all the same. He pulls the mech over his desk, into his arms and hugs him- tight. Black and white arms flail against his armor before pausing, and then gripping back. They rock together, back and forth- a ball of plating that inter-meshes and intermingles. It’s hard to tell where one stops, and the other begins.   
  
“Why didn’t you hit me?”  
  
He doesn’t answer, fingertips tightening in the spaces between plating.  
  
“Why aren’t you leaving.”  
  
Because he can’t. They’re not lovers, they’re not friends… and they’re not even comrades anymore. Somewhere, in a limbo he can’t define and in a space he doesn’t understand - they are still intertwined together. He wonders if this quiet ache is what love is. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt generator: Prowl/Jazz/Again


End file.
